A Hand Upon a Shoulder
by Qalam
Summary: AKA The five times Watson put his hand on Holmes's shoulder, and the one time Holmes returned the gesture. A five-and-one that may vary in number depending on the muse. Will contain both humour and h/c. Gen, as always.
1. Chapter 1

**I really don't want to spoil this, so I'll say at the end which story this set after, though I suspect most of you awesome readers will know after the first few lines. =P**

**I don't own the detective, or the doctor, or anything else you recognise.**

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**I.**

They both looked at the water-bloated body, and saw under-pinned the image of a young well-dressed man, who had braved torrential rain to consult a detective.

Said detective wore a self-deprecating twist about his lips as if in penance, his eyes systematically noting every sign of the suffocating death that his client had succumbed to, and the light statement made by lips now turned an unnaturally livid hue reverberating in his ears:_ 'You have given me fresh life and hope.'_

Oh, if _only..._

Eventually, Holmes gestured wordlessly, and the mortuary doctor replaced the veil of the white sheet over the body of one John Openshaw.

Stepping out into the cool autumn morning, Watson stayed a pace behind Holmes, just at his shoulder, as his friend strode down the street with a façade of purpose - and spoke not one word.

He knew well that brooding would change nothing, and that his friend knew as much. But he also knew, better than perhaps anyone else, how keenly Holmes _felt_, despite his claims to the contrary.

So no empty words left the doctor's mouth, though a hand abandoned his side to slide onto the thin taut shoulder, and remain there.

It was habit for them both to wander the streets of London if the weather was fair, and they had the inclination, and Holmes often idly deduced out aloud for what little amusement and distraction it provided to the racing engine of his mind.

But today, there was a different undertone as Holmes began to speak, a _purpose_ almost. There was a fever to his words, that almost tripped and stumbled over each in their hurry to leave his mouth, and it was clear to Watson that the reeling off of numerous observations was doing nothing to calm Holmes's mind, as it so often had.

Yet he did not interfere, simply walked and waited, knowing with a certainty that he could never explain that it was the best thing to do, letting Holmes burn the furious energy he seemed to have compressed inside himself, but anchoring him firmly with the unmoving hand on his shoulder.

Eventually, the nervous, jerking speech and accompanying frenetic gestures broke off, and the tautness in the shoulder was replaced by a sagging weariness.

It was then that the lingering hand applied the most gentle of pressures, steering them both to a low-slung wall, and seating them upon it.

Grey eyes searched his face briefly, before they dropped, in that moment visible within them an earth-shattering doubt – but hazel eyes dipped to catch the falling gaze, and pull it, inch by scrabbling inch, back on to firm ground.

"Let's go home, dear chap."

The feeling of relief those few words gave the very human consulting detective were second only to the wordless promise of the warm weight on his shoulder.

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**Set after ****_The Five Orange Pips. _**

**Please review! =)**

**~ Qalam**


	2. Chapter 2

** A light-hearted piece to balance out the previous chapter. =)**

**I don't own.**

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"It's only a teaspoonful Holmes – you are being positively childish about this whole affair!"

Holmes lowered his brows with a furious look on his face, though the effect was rather undermined by a high-pitched sneeze that shook his entire body.

Pulling the blanket around his shoulders up to cover his chin, and hunching over slightly, Holmes heaved a muffled sigh, and muttered into his furry cocoon.

"What was that Holmes?"

The detective uncovered his face long enough to respond, "If you insist, I will take the horrible concoction,' before promptly burying it back into the blanket.

There followed a silence in which Watson waited patiently for several moments for Holmes to resurface, but was disappointed.

"Holmes, you must ingest the medicine for it to have effect, old chap," the doctor chided patiently, and was rewarded by the detective slowly stirring into movement, and reaching a shivering hand out for the spoon and medicine.

Taking it as hurriedly as possible, and swallowing with the most hideous grimace upon his face, Holmes handed the bottle back with the air of having handled something quite repulsive.

Watching as his friend settled back against the pillows, Watson breathed a silent sigh of relief. That had been comparatively easy – now he would need Holmes to rest for more than just a few hours, and hopefully his brief bout of illness would pass.

Unfortunately that was not to be, for five minutes later, Holmes shot upright from his reclined position, and was violently sick into the basin Watson leapt to retrieve from the bedside table, where it had been placed to sit in anticipation.

The doctor held the basin with one hand, and employed the other in holding Holmes's shoulder, kneading it comfortingly.

As soon as Holmes was able to speak, he narrowed a look at Watson, and croaked hoarsely, "That was no medicine Watson - that was poison!" and brushed his hair from his forehead, before flopping back against the pillows dramatically.

Later, Watson would soothe Holmes's wounded pride with the very legitimate excuse of sleep deprivation, but in that moment, he could not help but laugh at his friend's antics. It was the fact that Holmes's actions had not surprised him in the least that made him laugh so – only Holmes could, as a grown man, still throw such tantrums and his actions still be considered perfectly routine to those who knew him.

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**Please review, especially those who have favourite/followed, but not taken the time to leave a few words - it really does mean a lot.**

**~ Qalam**


	3. Chapter 3

**I don't own.**

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Something firmly clapped his shoulder, squeezed, and then disappeared, and Holmes started in his chair, gazing around in attempt to regain his bearings, but seeing only what resembled a canvas covered by rather colourful fog.

Then it returned, and stayed this time, and Holmes finally registered it as a hand.

"Rise and shine Holmes!" The constant bright chirruping in his ear finally rearranged itself, and conveyed a coherent message.

Knocking the hand from his shoulder none-too-gently, Holmes shifted in his chair, pulling his legs closer to his chest and tugging the blanket around himself a little more securely.

"Wa'son, g'way," he managed in a rather slurred manner, and the blurred figure before him shifted and sighed, before disappearing from sight altogether as heavy lids slid closed once more.

Without warning, a crash of lukewarm liquid startled him upright with an undignified yell, and trickled down his neck, seeping through blankets and clothes as he blinked repeatedly in attempt to clear his vision.

"Sorry Holmes," Watson said, not bothering to hide his amusement at the bedraggled detective standing unsteadily before him. "Mrs Hudson insists that we are to leave the flat at this very instant, and remain away until early evening at the least – in her own words, 'it will take that long to turn these rooms into even a passable representation of human habitation.'"

It was fortuitous that Watson's hand seemed to know its way to Holmes's shoulder of its own accord, and liked to perch there occasionally, for if it were not for that, the logician's first step forward would've ended in a headlong crash into the mantelpiece.

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**You know what I am going to ask for - please?**

**~ Qalam**


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